Cat: “A small, domesticated carnivorous mammal with soft fur, a short snout, and retractable claws widely kept as a pet.”

Lady: “a woman of superior social position, especially one of noble birth.”

Cat Lady: “an archetype of a haggard, mentally unstable, willfully isolated eccentric older woman who lives alone with a large number of cats”

Greetings Dear Ones!

Ever since I heard that “our country is being run by a bunch of childless cat ladies” everything makes sense to me. One thing’s for sure—it’s not being run by semi-feral women who live at the edge of the woods with a pack of Jack Russells. Or chickens. Or sheep. Or oxen… You never hear about Ox-ladies running for office or taking their goads and making the local school board tow the line. This is where I seem to have gone wrong. Who knew? For years, despite all the hair on my couch and clothing, and my mentally unstable and haggard demeanor, no matter how many critters felt at liberty to dine off my kitchen counters without permission, it doesn’t count towards my personal power if I am not also forced to sift little poopies out of a box of sand in the corner on a daily basis. That seems to be the basic difference between a cat and a Jack Russel: A cat will poop consistently in a little box of grit, whereas a Jack Russell prefers to defecate on antique oriental carpets all over the house. (A pile of clean towels will do in a pinch.) Jack Russells are basically just incontinent cats who bark and hunt tennis balls. Both will stare into your eyes with utter devotion and then proceed to do whatever the hell they want, regardless of your feelings. They are the ultimate in addictive/toxic love relationships.

Don’t get me wrong—I like cats. I like all animals. But I have never been “a cat person,” never mind a “Cat Lady.”

“Who says you are ANY kind of Lady?” asks Prudence loudly. looking at my disheveled state.

Lady or not, I have always had “dogs.”

“We are NOT dogs,” insists Nigel from his basket by the window. “We are canine ninjas in fur pajamas, thugs in clown suits, light-pawed secret service men with keeping an eye on your every move who like to steal butter.”

“I love dogs,” I say, “and whatever else it is you think you are, you adorable little despot.”

I’ve always been a dog person. Cats are the one domesticated animal species with which I have never really bonded. This is not so much by choice as by consequence. I was married for twenty years to a man who was allergic to them. My son has asthma. Growing up, my sisters had allergies that meant the barn cats had to live, well, in the barn. One sister would carry them around in her coat while she did chores and they adored her but none of them were allowed in the house. (We let my sister in occasionally.) I was more into the rabbits and the goats. I carried a rabbit around in my coat while I did chores. (A goat wouldn’t fit.) I would tie a string of baling twine around the middle of my jacket so that the rabbit would not fall out as I worked.

This summer, when I found out that it is actually the Cat Ladies who are ruling the world, I did what any normal, insane, power-hungry, middle-aged menopausal woman who lives in squalor would do. I adopted FIVE of them. Yep! That’s right. The Crazy Cat Lady Starter Pack. It comes with five adult cats ranging in size from 13 pounds to 17 pounds. They have fleas, they have worms, and they each have a completely unique set of neuroses. One even has eye cancer and needs to have an eye removed as soon as I manage to catch him again. The entire pod once belonged to my deceased friend N. who passed away in June. We were unable to locate the ideal homes for them where they would be able to continue an indoor/outdoor existence far enough away from their original farm so they wouldn’t try to go back. They have been competing with raccoons for their lunch and untouched by human contact for months. A wonderful person fed them and checked on them regularly but they were getting feral. Eventually, he trapped them one by one, took them to the vet (at his own expense), got them vaccinated, and enlisted friends to drive them 80 miles each way. It took five trips. (I’ve been getting a cat a week for five weeks now.)

I’ve needed a lot of help. Not being a cat person, I have a lot of questions. “What does it mean when they drool and smear that drool all over you? Are they sick? Did the rabies vaccine backfire?”

“Oh, that’s LOVE!” they say. “They are love bombing you.”

“What does it mean when they present you with a dead mouse?”

“Oh! How Sweet! It’s a Love Offering!”

“How about when they are purring like mad and then suddenly slash you with a claw?”

“They are just overwhelmed by their emotions.”

“What does it mean when they nibble the length of your arm like it was a corncob?”

“Love! Love! Love!! You are so lucky! They love you!”

So….

Let’s just admit it. Cat love is Gross. This notion of “love” feels like I am being gaslit by my cat-lady colleagues. At least when one picks up a dog turd in the shape of a canine middle finger, left in the middle of the living room for all to see (where he is not allowed), the communication is Quite Clear. With dogs, things mean what I think they mean. Not so with cats.

It’s taking me a minute to realize that sometimes Love is Gross. True Devotion is juicy, bloody, Nasty—a whole lot of work for a discarded mouse gizzard on your kitchen floor. (Um… YUCK! No thank you!) It also takes a lot of patience to get them to be this “nice” to me.

Let’s pause and talk about the shop. Have I told you lately how much I love my customers? They are amazing people. It is a privilege to meet so many incredible members of the community who do things much, MUCH harder to help humanity than spending six hours removing three yards of lace from the hem of a wedding gown. One is the mother of an infant amputee. One is a family services worker with a caseload that has her weeping in court when she has to testify about the conditions a child must endure. Some are veterans, some police officers, some nurses, some counselors, some advocates, some doctors, some mental health specialists… I am so nourished by our interactions and discussions. I am in awe of the intelligence, skill, and training they have. But what impresses me more are their hearts—their willingness to get really Dirty and roughed up by the love they bring to their vocations.

At home, I crouch on the floor, extending a hand into a dark corner, singing softly to a creature who fears me, and hear the words of one customer who recently was called out to restore order in a group home with a person suffering a mental health crisis.

“You cannot teach trust,” he tells me. “There is nothing to explain to someone in crisis; only DOING counts. Caring for others is not the same as parenting. Too many people think they can parent another person. We can’t discuss whether someone’s needs are reasonable or not. A lot of our people are the way they are because their needs were never met. The only way we can invite trust is to be trustworthy—to see the need and meet it. We can’t judge the needs, just meet them. People whose needs have never been met are very fragile, sometimes dangerous.”

This is so true with the cats. I meet their needs for food, for shelter, for security and peace. I sit and read to them. One by one, they come to rub and drool and murder for me in gratitude. (I hope they get the mouse that made a nest in the glove box of my car and ate my registration!) Now that I know how to interpret feline affection, I am smitten. I am grateful for the lesson and the chance to understand once more that we need to hold ourselves accountable consistently and then Wait. Trust is a seed that grows slowly. These cats need to decide for themselves that they are home now. It will come from within them when the time is right and the conditions feel authentic, predictable and stable. Sometimes those we are attempting to serve will never appreciate our efforts. Some of these cats are traumatized more than the others. That’s ok. It’s Good for us to do what is Good anyway, without thoughts of reward. (The rewards might be unexpectedly yucky anyway.)

Perhaps I will make a half-decent Cat Lady afterall. Most people think I am nuts for taking this on. But we already knew that, cats or no cats. To be honest, I feel more centered, peaceful, and powerful already. Maybe it’s the way my heart resets itself next to a heavy, furry purr. Maybe it’s related to the soothing daily zen garden designs I make in the litter boxes—deeply satisfying! I make time to just Be With, rather than train or “parent” these animals. They arrive as they are. I am grateful to have the challenges I have, which are sweet and furry (even if a bit drooly) rather than the horrors others face. Each of us hears on the wind a different howl, moo, meow, cluck, cry, or sob—each of us has to decide how we will respond to Love’s invitation to Do Something, no matter how icky it is.

Thank you to all of you Dear Menders, for answering those calls—the unique queries and plaintive meows in your own lives. Thank you to all you Magnificent Cat People, Dog People, Goat People and People People—all you Dear Ones who have the courage and tenacity to keep Learning, Keep Giving, Keep Growing, and Doing What is Right, with the patience to do today’s chores and simply Wait…..

Meow! I love you so much!

Your newest Childless (don’t tell my kids) Cat Lady,

Nancy